The lovers wait to lose their balance. They would dive gratefully into the half-dark, picking fingers, thighs, lips and tumescent parts. But wait, let’s stick to beginnings. Before a rustle in the chest, there were first meetings
in crowds and along unremarkable corridors. A grin, a look and the memory shrinks to the here and now, re-playable for future use in the hour before sleep, the hours before they meet again. Living is an endless piece of rope.
The lovers are jaded funambulists, steady gait slowed by the weight of loneliness. But legs quiver now, the bait already cast. And whose heart is not a hungry fish?
– Cyril Wong